him had probably gone right over his head. "Nobody knows yet," he said, and she thought, Thank God. He's on the right track. He does realize. Does he realize? Thank God, maybe. "The keys are in the blue teapot." 'Where? What the fuck blue teapot?" "At the end of the counter-the lid got broken, so we used it to just throw things in-" "Shut up. Shut up or I'll shut you up for good." He tried to stick his fist in the blue teapot, but it would not go in. "F uck, fuck, fuck!" he cried, and he turned the teapot over and banged it on the counter, so that not only did the car keys and house keys and various coins and a wad of old Canadian Tire money fall out on the floor but pieces of blue pottery hit the boards. 'With the red string on them," she said faintly. He kicked things about for a moment before he picked up the proper keys. "So what are you going to say about the car?" he said. "You sold it to a stranger. Right?" The import of this did not come to her for a moment. When it did, the room quivered. Going to say. "Thank you," she said, but her mouth was so dry that she was not sure any sound came out. It must have, though, for he said, "Don't thank me yet. I got a good mem- ory. Good long memory. You make that stranger look nothin' like me. You don't want them goin' into graveyards diggin' up dead bodies. You just remember, a word outta you and there'll be a word " outta me. She kept looking down. Not stirring or speaking, just looking at the mess on the floor. Gone. The door closed. Still she didn't move. She wanted to lock the door, but she couldn't move. She heard the engine start, then die. What now? He was so jumpy, he'd do everything wrong. Then again, starting, starting, turning over. The tires on the gravel. She walked trembling to the phone and found that he had told the truth: it was dead. Beside the phone was one of their many bookcases. This one held mostly old books, books that had not been opened for years. There was "The Proud Tower." Albert Speer. Rich's books. "A Celebration of Familiar Fruits and Vegetables." "Hearty and Elegant Dishes and Fresh Surprises," assembled, tested, and created by Bett Underhill. Once Rich had got the kitchen finished, Nita had made the mistake for a while of trying to cook like Bett. For a rather short while, because it turned out that Rich hadn't wanted to be reminded of all that fuss, and she herself hadn't had enough patience for so much chopping and simmering. But she had learned a few things that surprised her. Such as the poi- sonous aspects of certain familiar and gen- erally benign plants. She should write to Bett. Dear Bett, Rich is dead and I have saved my life by becomingyou. But what would Bett care that her life had been saved? There was only one per- son really worth telling. Rich. Rich. Now she knew what it was to miss him. Like having the air sucked out of the sky. She told herself that she could walk down to the village. There was a police office in the back of the Township Hall. She should get a cell phone. But she was so shaken, so deeply tired that she could hardly stir a foot. She had first of all to rest. S he was wakened by a knock on her still unlocked door. It was a policeman, not the one from the village but one of the provincial traffic police. He asked if she knew where her car was. She looked at the patch of gravel where it had been parked. " I ' " h . d " I t s gone, s e sa!. t was over h " t ere. "You didn't know it was stolen? When did you last look out and see it?" "It must have been last night." "The keys were left in it?" "I suppose they must have been." "I have to tell you it's been in a bad ac- cident. A one-car accident just this side of Wallenstein. The driver rolled it down into the culvert and totalled it. And that's not all. He's wanted for a triple murder. That's the latest we heard, anyway. Mur- der in Mitchellston. You were lucky you didn't run into him." 'Was he hurt?" 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